


December Drabbles

by BobSkeleton



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Gen, Gratuitous holiday fluff, Grown Men Crying, Height Differences, Howard plays guitar, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Naboo's done with dat shit, Pining, Sharing Clothes, Winter, almost food porn, boys comforting each other, made up alien holidays, retail woes, shameless fix-it, sly mentions of stiff peaks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton
Summary: Just a collection of Howince one-shots set around the holidays.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 37
Kudos: 56





	1. Vince Noir: Coat Thief Extraordinaire

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I didn't know if I wanted to post these or not. They're basically hot trash with absolutely no plot, born out of my need to continue making writing my therapy. This time, I'm using writing to get through the holiday season. I hope they make you feel a little warmer and happier, too, if this isn't your favorite time of year. And if it is, yay! Enjoy!
> 
> These are all unrelated. They could take place in the same universe, or they don't have to. The Boosh is pretty loose about that stuff, which is great for fanfic writers. Please forgive any glaring Americanisms. I do my best, but I'm highly flawed. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my crackwife and cowriter, [blackmountainbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones), for reading, beta-ing, and encouraging me to post. They had no part in writing these, though, which was a strange experience after sharing a brain-room for so long. All that to say, if you dislike it, don't blame them!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince acts cold so Howard will share his coat. That's it. That's the story. 
> 
> (Born out of a conversation on Discord. Don't tempt me with fic ideas, I _will_ run with them!)

Howard checked his watch for the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes, then checked it against his pocketwatch (carefully kept in his waistcoat pocket and dutifully wound every night), just to be sure. 

Vince was late. 

This shouldn’t have surprised Howard. In all the long years he’d known Vince Noir, he had never once been punctual for anything. In Vince’s world, “on time” was early, “late” was on time, and “early” was unheard of. 

Howard rolled his eyes and turned to the shelf of modern poetry. Vince had begged Howard to meet him up at this bookshop so they could get something to eat after Vince’s long day of shopping the TopShop holiday sales. Howard figured there could be worse places than a bookstore to wait for Vince, and lost himself in the woebegone verse of his fellow poets. 

  
  


Vince had plenty of coats--more outerwear, really, than any one person should have. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that…

During the holidays, wandering the streets, taking in the festive lights, the merry music, the dazzling window displays, the couples holding hands, the families chatting excitedly… it made Vince lonely. Vince loved the spotlight, and loved surrounding himself with people, but he knew better than anyone how very possible it was to be in the center of a crush of people, and be completely, utterly alone. 

Furthermore, Vince  _ hated  _ feeling this way, which made the whole thing even worse. He was the sunshine kid--he wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to feel this way, that was Howard’s schtick. And then, when he  _ did  _ feel down, he felt as though the world around him was bursting with laughter, laughing at an inside joke that he didn’t get. He felt like the only one who felt this way, perpetuating the dark cycle.

The point was that Vince wanted to feel close to someone. He wanted to feel like he belonged, even to a found family, that he was loved and wanted and cherished. The person he loved best in the world, however, had a pretty strict “don’t touch me” rule. And since Vince couldn’t get into Howard’s arms or pants or bed, the closest thing Vince could conceive of (with the help of the Plan Pony) was to get into his coat.

Which is why Vince tumbled into the bookshop, nearly half an hour late, a flurry of snow following him inside, wearing only a flowy blouse over some leather drainpipes. He had thrown on the new scarf he found on the sale rack, though, he wasn’t  _ completely  _ daft. 

Vince saw Howard stooped over a book, his broad shoulders tugging at the black wool of his navy issue peacoat. He looked so tall and broad and warm, his face buried in a book, a single lock of hair curling over his forehead. Vince’s breath caught at the sight. He couldn’t  _ wait  _ to get inside that coat, smelling of wool and tea and the barest hint of tobacco, still warm from Howard’s body. He composed himself quickly. 

“All right, Howard,” Vince chirped. 

Howard nodded as he closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf. “You’re late,” he stated.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Vince breathlessly. He held up his shiny black TopShop bag as evidence. “Great sale, got some good things. You can’t see, though, part of your Christmas present’s in here.” He waggled his eyebrows, but Howard looked less than excited. 

“I’m not tromping around in some silver lacy thing,” he said indignantly. 

“Nah, I got you something that’s  _ you,  _ Howard. You’ll love it,” said Vince, grinning broadly. “Let’s go, the Vietnamese place is just up the street.” Howard nodded, the idea of a hot bowl of pho very appealing. 

Vince headed to the door, waiting for Howard to remark on how stupid Vince was for not dressing properly. He figured it would come in _three_ … _two_ …

“Vince, where’s your coat?” asked Howard. 

_One_. Steady as clockwork, his Howard. 

“Oh, I left it at the flat. I was in such a rush to get going this morning, must’ve forgotten,” Vince said airily. 

“Vince, we go through this every winter. Do I need to show you the chart about dressing for the weather again?”

Vince shuddered, and not from the cold. He hated when Howard tried to educate him with elaborate lesson plans and infographics. “No, I know it was stupid. Just forgot, that’s all.” 

Howard made a “hrmph” noise as they strode along the crowded, snowy sidewalk. Vince made a show of wrapping his arms around himself, his gauzy top doing  _ nothing  _ to keep the wind or chill out. He  _ was  _ genuinely cold, but tried hard to achieve the balance between showing it off for Howard and overdoing it. 

Their feet crunched on the snow as they walked, and a particularly bitter gust of wind nearly blew Vince over. Howard of course had his hands in his pockets and barely seemed to notice. “You all right, little man?” he asked. 

Vince nodded, his nose growing pink in the cold. “Yeah, fine,” he said grumpily.  _ Stupid Howard,  _ he thought.  _ Just give me your coat and be done with it.  _

Howard nodded and continued on, Vince trotting to keep up with his brisk pace. 

Arms still wrapped around himself, Vince gave a tremendous shiver, one Howard saw out of the corner of his eye. “How much further is this place, Vince?” he asked. 

“Not far, another couple blocks,” answered Vince, his teeth chattering.  _ Serves him right,  _ thought Howard. Just as he’d begun berating himself for being so heartless, Howard heard Vince’s distinctive, high little sneeze. 

Sure enough, Vince was rubbing his nose as another sneeze wracked his body. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ Howard shrugged off the peacoat and draped it over Vince’s shoulders. “You’ll catch your death, Vince, really, that wasn’t very intelligent of you to leave your coat home, was it?”

_ No,  _ thought Vince,  _ but it was bloody genius of me to get your coat.  _

The coat was heavy and warm around Vince’s shoulders. It was far too large, the long sleeves and cuffs hanging well over Vince’s wrists, the buttons far overreaching their holes. He shoved his hands in the pockets which were so deep and still warm from Howard’s hands. Vince grinned prettily up at Howard, snowflakes catching in his lashes, and said, “Cheers, Howard,” his voice quivering with the cold. 

Howard gave him a smile, a real one, and ruffled Vince’s snow-sparkling hair. “Let’s go quickly, it’s freezing out here,” Howard said, resuming his fast pace. 

Vince felt warmth spreading all over him, starting at his center and radiating outward, settling over him like a reverse shiver. His cheeks flushed pink and his breath caught in his throat, but it had nothing to do with the cold of the air or the warmth of the jacket. It was just Howard. Howard caring for him, making sure he was warm, Howard forgiving him for being stupid, Howard touching his hair…  _ Howard.  _

Vince sighed happily and fell in step beside Howard. If warm soup didn’t clear up the cold he was certain he’d just caught, at least Vince had sick times with Howard taking care of him to look forward to. That in itself made the entire plan worthwhile. 


	2. Winter Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard fulfills his solemn duty to cheer Vince up by coming up with some holiday travel plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to everyone who wishes they could be off-world for the winter holidays (especially if Tony Harrison and Saboo are involved... or is that just me?). 
> 
> All details of Xooberon’s holiday came from this absolutely GENIUS holiday generator: http://chaoticshiny.com/holidaygen.php
> 
> Well, almost all. I made up the opals, corvids, and pies.

Howard scatted his way up the stairs, skeet-bopping and chicka-owing as he unwrapped his practical brown scarf from around his throat. This evening’s jazzercise had been particularly stimulating, and he was feeling loose and jazzy fresh. 

He heard music coming from the flat, but didn’t smell anything. Strange, since Vince usually had some sort of horrible concoction of sweets for supper or at least ordered takeaway. But then, Howard supposed, it was Sunday and he hadn’t seen Vince all day. 

Howard had been up early for a bracing walk around town, culminating in a trip to the record shop and a stop at the bakery where he had picked up some fresh gingerbread biscuits (a rare point of intersection between he and Vince on the List of Acceptable Sweets). He’d left the sweets on the kitchen counter, and changed for jazzercise. He’d noticed Vince’s slumbering form in its bed, and figured he was just being lazy or sleeping it off from whatever holiday party he’d been at last night. 

He entered the flat and saw the little Christmas tree he and Vince had put up last week, complete with handmade ornaments of their favorite dead musicians. He grinned to himself, warming at the memory. 

Ah, there was Vince. He was sitting on the floor, back against the psychedelic sofa, knees drawn up to his pointy face. Howard thought he must’ve been watching telly, only the TV was dark and the flat smelled like sadness. 

The gingerbread was untouched. The music he’d heard was “Dust in the Wind,” and Howard’s good mood popped like a balloon. 

That was Vince’s song for the sad times. 

Howard felt a pang, but being a man of action, he knew his first job was to help make Vince feel better, no matter what trivial thing had upset him. Last time this had happened, someone at the club had worn the same shirt as Vince, and Howard had to resort to making rude sounds on his trumpet before Vince cracked a smile.

Howard hung his scarf and coat on the stair banister, then went and sat on the sofa beside where Vince was huddled. 

“Hey, Vince,” he said, his voice soft, but he hoped cheerful. 

“Alright,” said Vince, not breaking his stare at the dark room in front of him. 

“How was your day?”

Vince sighed, still not turning to meet Howard’s eyes. “Oh, you know, not great. Not terrible, but not great.” 

Howard nodded. “You were asleep late,” he commented. “Feeling alright?”

“Suppose so,” said Vince. “Wasn’t really asleep, just…”

Howard waited a beat before prompting him to finish the thought. “Just what?” 

Reluctantly, Vince replied, “Just didn’t want to be up.”

Howard nodded thoughtfully, trying to think of what Vince had done in the last 24 hours that could have upset him. He lit upon an idea. “Did something happen at the party last night?”

“I left early,” said Vince with a sigh. Howard had a feeling they were getting to the meat of the issue, and dug a little further. 

“Why’s that?”

“Just didn’t feel like it. I didn’t feel very Christmassy, you know?” Vince said, resting his pointed chin on his folded arms. He was huddled up the way he used to do when they were children, as though he could curl in on himself and make his whole being so small it would simply disappear. 

Against his better judgment, Howard reached a hand over to Vince’s shoulder and laid it there. It looked comically large, his long fingers and wide palm resting on Vince’s slim, bony shoulder. They sat for a few moments, though Howard couldn’t be sure because physical contact always felt so awkward to him, thus prolonging seconds into hours. Eventually, he heard a soft sniffle from Vince. 

“Hey, little man,” Howard said, his voice low and soothing. It was what Vince called his “zookeeper voice,” the one he used to coax and comfort the animals. Howard scooted down on the floor next to Vince and saw a track running down his prominent cheekbones where a tear had fallen. “What’s this about?”

At long last, Vince turned to look at Howard, the sadness in his eyes cracking a piece of Howard’s heart. 

_ This is it _ , Howard thought. Now they could find out what frivolous thing had upset Vince and move past it. 

Vince spoke, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “I hate this time of year, Howard.”

That… Howard did not expect that. He furrowed his brow in confusion. “Vince, you  _ love  _ Christmas. You love holidays! The lights and glitter and excuse to go shopping…”

“Maybe I did, once,” said Vince. “But… it’s exhausting, Howard. Having to pretend to be happy and seeing all these people, and then there’s all these stupid families running around being happy, and…” his voice hitched as fresh tears filled his eyes. 

And  _ that  _ was the crux of it, Howard thought. The families. 

It was the  _ one  _ thing Vince Noir did not have. Vince had great hair, loads of friends (or admirers/acquaintances), a killer sense of fashion, good taste in music (though Howard would never admit it out loud), a kind heart, a good sense of humor, a contagious, adorable laugh… but Vince Noir, when it came to blood, was completely alone in the world. 

“This time of year… it’s hard,” said Howard. “It’s hard because it’s rubbed in your face, isn’t it, how happy and together everyone is?”

Vince nodded sadly before continuing. “And this is the time of year when I  _ should  _ feel most grateful for all the good things, and be all happy and festive, but I can’t help it. It’s like… one time, when I was a nipper in the jungle, I was pickin’ roses and I had a whole lovely bunch of ‘em, but one thorn got me finger. And even though I had a soft rainbow of flowers, I couldn’t think about them or how good they smelled or how nice the petals felt. The only thing I could focus on was the one thorn. That’s how it feels, Howard. It’s like a poison thorn.” He sighed deeply, wiping at his eyes in frustration. “And I go out to all them stupid parties and be the sunshine kid and wear the sparkliest clothes I can find, but…” 

Vince sobbed, a small, little sound like an animal in pain, and it broke Howard’s heart. He wrapped an arm around Vince’s shoulders and pulled him in tight, letting Vince weep on the corner of his shirt and not caring. 

This wasn’t a frivolous fashion crisis. This was far deeper than that. 

And it was a pain Howard understood. While Howard had had parents, and had a few memories of childhood Christmases that weren’t idyllic but weren’t miserable either, Vince had nothing. He had no roots, no ties to anyone or any place in the world, really. So Vince’s sadness focused on families, on children and their parents. Howard’s sadness focused on his lack of success in pinning down his soulmate, that one special person he’d love forever and who would love him back. He felt sad around Christmastime, too, for a separate but similar reason. The happy couples window shopping, cuddling in the snow… it pierced Howard’s heart, and so he knew, a little, how Vince was feeling. For once,  _ this  _ was something on which they could see eye to eye.

“It’s okay, Vince,” soothed Howard. “Cry it out, little man.” Vince did, though the sobs subsided quickly, for which Howard was glad. As much as he loved Vince, he was, after all, an Englishman, and the tears of a grown man were like kryptonite to him. 

“It  _ is  _ a hard time of year, Vince,” Howard said, keeping his voice low as Vince finished crying. “It’s hard because everyone is expected to be merry and bright, and that’s just not the case for everyone. I don’t love this time of year, either, you know that, for much the same reason.” 

Vince sniffled and lifted his head, nodding in unspoken understanding. He held Howard’s eyes for a moment too long before continuing, “But people know that about you, Howard. People think I just like shiny things and therefore must love Christmas.” 

“Well,” said Howard. “You owe them nothing. The most important thing, Vince, is for you to take care of yourself. Hang what  _ people  _ think. You’re better than all of them, anyway.” Vince gave Howard a watery little smile at that. “Now. First things first. You are freezing cold sitting here on the floor. Wrap up in that blanket and sit on the couch, I’ll be right back.” Vince nodded and obediently did as he was told while Howard got to work in the kitchen. 

He returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs and the gingerbread from earlier. Vince’s eyes lit up seeing the iced biscuits. “Tea?” he asked. 

“Cocoa,” said Howard. “I think tonight merits something a bit more decadent than tea. But if you want some, I can go make it?”

“Nah, this is genius, thanks, Howard,” said Vince, smiling. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was a start. 

“Next, is that on your mobile? The music?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Vince sheepishly, extracting the device from his pocket and turning it off. 

“Good,” said Howard as he rose and strode over to the record player. He selected one of Vince’s favorite Rolling Stones albums and set that playing softly in the background as he turned to the small fireplace. He’d surreptitiously bought some logs earlier in the week anticipating a nice fireside read of some classic Russian literature for the weekend, and was thrilled to find the fireplace ready to use (an uncertainty when one lived with a Shaman and his gorilla familiar). The fire crackled slowly to life as Howard returned to the couch and ate a biscuit. 

“This is nice, Howard,” said Vince as he swallowed a mouthful of hot chocolate. Howard smiled, inwardly preening. He loved that for as much as they’d grown up and apart over the years, only  _ he  _ was allowed to see Vince remove the mask, and only  _ he  _ knew how to make him feel better. 

“Good,” he said again. “Now,” Howard said, producing a notepad and pencil from one of his many Weekend Suit pockets. “What would you like to do for the rest of the holiday season?”

Vince thought. “Never go to another stupid party again?”

“Alright, sod the parties!” said Howard triumphantly, and he wrote, “Holiday Parties” on a piece of paper and chucked it into the fire. 

Vince’s jaw dropped, then he giggled like a child. Howard laughed, too, seeing Vince’s face illuminated by firelight as the last of the sadness melted away from his blue eyes. 

“What else?” asked Howard. 

“Umm…” said Vince thinking. “No more bad presents. Good presents can stay, but the shite ones can go.” 

Howard wrote “shite presents” on a paper and threw that one into the fireplace as well. 

“Whiny nippers!” said Vince excitedly. Howard wrote it down and handed the paper to Vince, who tossed it into the fire happily. 

“Tacky holiday clothes,” “obnoxious salespeople,” “overstimulating window displays,” “holiday movies,” “broccoli,” and “couples snogging each other like they think they’re in a film” all got tossed into the fire, too. 

When Naboo and Bollo came upstairs an hour later, they found their two tenants sitting wra pped in blankets, buzzing off sugar, burning little slips of paper and cackling like hyenas. Bollo shook his head. 

“Don’t set my place on fire,” Naboo lisped, not even trying to sound like he cared. 

Howard stood. “Naboo, I have a question.” 

_ Maybe I’ll die right now,  _ thought Naboo, hoping he’d get struck by lightning or the floor would open up and swallow him. 

No such luck. 

“What is it?” the Shaman asked resignedly. 

“Do you have Christmas on Xooberon?” 

Naboo wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Absolutely not, only humans could come up with such a disgusting display as that. We have Enairan.” 

“What’s Nair-in?” asked Vince as he sat backwards on the couch, leaning against the back to face Naboo, his eyes wide in curiosity. 

“It’s a solemn cultural holiday celebrated on the third new moon of winter. It’s associated with opals and healing. There’s a lot of corvids, carnations and weasels. Traditions include private playing of instruments, awarding of honors, and swearing of oaths.”

“Oooh,” said Vince, leaning intently over the back of the sofa. “Are there presents?”

“Opals mostly,” said Naboo. “The food’s pretty good, though. Lots of pies.” 

“Naboo,” said Howard, in the ball-licking tone of voice Naboo  _ knew  _ meant he was about to ask for something. “Could… that is. Vince and I want to get away for Christmas.  _ Far  _ away.” He gave Naboo a meaningful look. 

“Like Exeter?” asked Naboo. 

“No,” said Howard. “Could we--that is, do you have a place we could stay on Xooberon?”

Naboo showed the most emotion either of them had ever seen by incredulously lifting a single eyebrow. “No, absolutely not,” he lipsed. “It’s bad enough you two are polluting my earth residence, I won’t have you messing up my place on Xooberon, too.” 

“We’ll be tidy, honest,” whined Vince plaintively. “Have you been, Bollo?”

The gorilla answered Vince readily. “Yeah. Naboo’s place really great. Waterfront property.” 

“Pleeeeease, Naboo?” begged Vince, his round blue eyes working their magic. Naboo sighed, hating that he could deny Vince nothing.

“If you go, you have to put up with Saboo and Tony Harrison. Sometimes they drop in.” 

“Yes!” said Vince, clenching his fist in victory. 

“Won’t you come with us?” asked Howard, nervous about navigating a new planet alone and also not wanting to encounter the other Shaman. “Show us the sights, the sounds? Translate money, and help us celebrate, erm, Enron?” 

Naboo considered. He wanted nothing less than to take Vince and Howard to a place where he still had a shred of street cred. However, some part of him, buried deep, deep, deep,  _ deep  _ inside was touched that they wanted to see his homeworld and learn something of its culture. Naboo fought an internal battle, then decided there were probably enough drugs on Xooberon to make this tolerable, if not flat-out entertaining. 

“Fine,” he acceded. 

Vince and Howard did little excited dances, and chatted excitedly about their upcoming trip, their first Christmas off-world. Naboo and Bollo went off to Naboo's room, pretending not to be looking forward to it, too. 

As the record died, and the fire paled down to glowing embers, Vince and Howard sat side by side on the sofa, warm and happy and  _ excited  _ about winter for the first time since childhood. 

“Howard?” asked Vince sleepily.

“Mmm?”

“Thank you.” Vince laid his head on Howard’s shoulder and nuzzled in. Howard smiled, and rested his head atop Vince’s, closing his eyes. “Sorry you hate the hols, too, but we’re gonna have a kick-arse time this year.” 

“We sure are little man,” Howard replied. 

“‘M glad I have you, Howard,” said Vince, his voice so soft and childlike that it brought Howard back to when they were children, Vince and Howard vs. The World, unstoppable, and together. 

He smiled into Vince’s hair. “Me too, Vince,” he said happily, as they both drifted to sleep with visions of opals and corvids dancing in their heads. 


	3. The Customer Is NOT Always Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard has a rough day in the shop and Vince does what he does best-- makes Howard feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to [Ladadee195](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladadee195/pseuds/Ladadee195) and everyone else working retail at the holidays. I worked retail for seven years putting myself through college, so I get it and I'm sorry and I love you all.

Howard stormed upstairs in a fit of pique, the blood still rushing furiously in his ears. How  _ dare  _ she speak to him like that?

He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, taking a fortifying breath and closing his eyes, letting the familiar smells of the flat bring him back down-- hairspray, vanilla (why did the flat always smell like vanilla? Neither of them baked, not with any regularity anyway. And Vince favored candyfloss and strawberry-flavored soaps and shampoos… maybe Naboo magicked it to smell homey? Who knew.), and a soft, lingering smell of weed. 

His heart rate slowed a little, his blood pressure beginning to come back down. Opening his eyes, he went and sat on the sofa, grabbing his notebook so he could pen down some angry, bitter lines of poetry cursing humanity. 

Just as he’d gotten started, the sound of glittery platform boots skipping up the stairs interrupted him. 

“Hey, Howard,” said Vince. Howard could hear the smile on his voice even though he couldn’t see his flatmate. 

“What,” replied Howard drily. 

Vince clomped into Howard’s line of vision, leather pants, sparkly boots, some sort of long flowy over-thing… Howard didn’t have words for all of Vince’s articles of clothing. “The flowy thing,” “the sparkly thing,” “the sexy thing,” seemed to cover most of it, though. 

Vince took in Howard’s defeated posture and the poetry notebook, and felt a pang of pity for his best mate. 

“Sorry about that,” said Vince softly, the smile gone from his voice. Vince genuinely hated to see Howard so upset, and he hated the way other people treated Howard. It wasn’t Howard’s fault he was awkward and had tiny eyes and never knew the right thing to say. That was just part of who he was, and Vince loved him for it. But other people saw all of that as Howard being creepy or pretentious or rude, and they reacted accordingly. Vince thought Howard was like a conch. He had a weird-looking shell on the outside, but inside, he was even weirder-looking, soft and squishy and susceptible to harm. And Vince felt it was his strange, solemn duty to protect conch-Howard from the world. 

Howard looked up and met Vince’s eyes, which were wide and blue and full of concern. “Don’t worry about it,” huffed Howard. 

“But I  _ do  _ worry,” said Vince, squeezing himself between Howard and the arm of the couch. Vince was forever squeezing himself into small places and tight clothes, and the little chinks in Howard’s armor. “I hate seeing you get treated like that. That lady was bang out of order.”

“I certainly thought so,” replied Howard. 

“She had no right saying what she did. As if we’d ever sell vegan free-range genderless gingerbread people, Naboo would never go for that.” 

Howard huffed, anger still staining his voice. “Where did she get her information anyway?”

“Some stupid souvenir shop up the block,” said Vince. 

“Did you talk to her after I left?” Howard asked. 

“A little. I told her I was the manager,” Vince grinned wryly. “Tried to calm her down, but it didn’t really work. I don’t mind, though, I hope she fucks right off and never comes back.” 

Howard chuckled a little at Vince’s righteous indignation. Vince didn’t often make enemies, and part of him was touched that he’d done so for Howard’s sake. 

“She was wrong, you know,” said Vince softly. 

“I  _ know  _ she was wrong, we don’t carry gingerbread,” replied Howard. 

“No, I mean,” said Vince, scooting closer to Howard, “she was wrong to say that about you. To call you a liar and say you were high-and-mighty, and she was wrong when she said you were creepy and shouldn’t be allowed to work in a shop that actually wanted to do business.” 

“Was she though?” asked Howard sadly, staring at his hands. 

Vince wanted to hug Howard so badly his arms ached, but knew that wasn’t Howard’s preferred method of comfort. “‘Course she was. You’re not creepy.” 

“I am, though,” said Howard defeatedly. “Everyone says so.”

“I met your dad,” said Vince, his voice mischievous. “You come from a long line of creepers. The best creeps in Yorkshire, the Moons are.” 

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Howard’s mouth. “Comin’ at you like a bat in the night.” 

“Like frogspawn at breakfast,” added Vince with a chuckle, and Howard joined in, the sound of it contagious. 

“And you’re  _ not  _ a liar,” said Vince. “You’re many things, but as you’re always saying, Howard Moon is a man of his word, sir.”

“That  _ is  _ true,” said Howard. 

“She had bad information, and you stuck to your guns. You’re like a hero, Howard, a hero for truth and justice!”

“You read too many comic books,” said Howard critically. 

“Still! You were right and she wasn’t,” said Vince with conviction. 

“Isn’t the customer always right?” asked Howard.

“No. Definitely not,” replied Vince. “Besides,” he whispered and scooted, impossibly, even closer to Howard, “don’t tell Naboo I said this, but sometimes I think the store isn’t… for real.” Howard gave him a quizzical look. “I mean, it’s really there and everything, but I think it’s like, a front for something.” 

Howard shook his head. Vince was so lovably  _ dense  _ sometimes. Of  _ course  _ the store was a front. Howard had suspected this since the day they moved in. There was no way they could afford the rent of the shop and the flat on the store’s income. Naboo was probably dealing drugs with the rest of the Shaman, who knew why he had the store? But Howard played along, since Vince was being so kind. “You don’t say?”

“I do say!” said Vince. “I just did! Only, don’t tell him I said, promise?”

“Promise,” said Howard. He smiled at Vince, taking in his familiar blue eyes, the eyes he loved best in the world. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. 

Vince smiled back, and laid his head on Howard’s shoulder, the closest to a hug he was probably going to get. “I’m setting the kettle on, have some tea before you come back,” said Vince as he stood. Howard nodded, and Vince turned on the kettle, filling Howard’s favorite mug with his favorite Yorkshire tea and one sugar, just as he liked it. He clomped back downstairs to tend the shop while Howard finished settling down. 

All Howard could think of now was Vince--how close Vince had sat, his body pressed up against Howard’s, warm and smelling of sweets, how Vince always knew the right thing to say when Howard  _ never  _ did, his blue eyes clear and kind and full of love. 

Howard tossed the notebook aside. He might hate humanity at large, but as long as Vince was a part of humanity, there was one part he’d always love. 


	4. Gift Wrapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince and Howard have a system for wrapping presents because of course they do.

Vince sat on the floor of the living room, trying to enjoy the twinkling fairy lights and the snow falling outside the window instead of tapping his foot anxiously, awaiting Howard’s return. 

A few days ago, Vince had given Howard a shopping bag full of plain boxes, every single one thoroughly taped shut as though it was being shipped to a far away and perilous location. 

None of the packages were being shipped. They weren’t even leaving the flat. 

They did, however, need to be peek-proof, and Howard could be very clever. 

The unwrapped, undecorated boxes contained all the Christmas presents Vince had bought this year (most were for Howard, but there was something for Naboo, Bollo, and Leroy in there, too). And Vince was waiting for Howard to finish wrapping them all. 

Years ago, Vince and Howard had realized that on their own, neither could wrap presents effectively. Howard was good at wrapping the gifts, but he had no eye for ribbons or bows or even wrapping paper. He wrapped his gifts in plain brown butcher’s paper, and he always forgot to write tags on the gifts, so on Christmas morning Vince would open every package and make piles of presents for the different recipients (Mr. and Mrs. Moon, Naboo, Bollo, one time Bob Fossil…but most were for Vince). 

Vince, on the other hand, made presents look visually stunning, a veritable wrapping feast for the eyes, but could not, for the life of him, figure out how to make the corners of wrapping paper look sharp and neat. He always cut the wrong sizes of paper leaving part of the gift exposed, always got distracted halfway through and ended up haphazardly taping on both sides of the box so there was no proper front. 

In the way the world works, both boys felt ashamed of their presents: Howard for his being too boring, and Vince for his being too sloppy. From then on, they had done present wrapping as a team. Howard would wrap them all in paper, cutting tight creases and perfectly straight one inch pieces of sellotape. Vince would beautify them, adding curls of ribbons, sprigs of pine that smelled as pretty as they looked, feathers, and beautifully labeled tags. It did mean that both boys, in essence, wrapped their own Christmas presents but neither of them minded. The system worked. 

It was just another whimsically perfect way they dovetailed together, molding their world to suit them, instead of the other way around. 

Vince chewed his thumbnail, mentally inventorying the bows, ribbons, and assorted bits and bobs he had, when  _ finally  _ Howard emerged. Vince shot up, his face beaming. “All right, Howard?”

“Yes, yes,” said Howard, establishing his personal space before Vince could get up inside it. “Here you go,” he said, handing Vince a large bag full of perfectly-wrapped gifts. 

Vince took the sack greedily, smiling like an impish child. “I could just open them now,” he said, more as a request than a threat. 

“You could,” replied Howard, cocking his head, “but where’s the fun in that? On Christmas morning you’d have nothing.” 

“Except for what Father Christmas brings,” added Vince with gravitas. 

“Yes,” nodded Howard. “Except for those.” 

“Oh, they look so pretty, Howard. You can’t stop me from shaking them around a bit,” he added as he shook the bag. No revealing sounds came forth. 

“I did wrap them extra carefully,” said Howard proudly. “And besides, Vince, they aren’t  _ all  _ yours.”

“Nah, but most of ‘em are,” said Vince, his eyes still glittering. He sat on the floor and started extricating gifts one by one, examining them and sizing them up. 

Howard smiled to himself. He loved to watch Vince take something as plain as a parcel and prettify it, turning it from a package to a showpiece. He could practically see the gears in Vince’s head grinding, trying to decide how best to adorn the assorted boxes. 

Since stumbling upon this curious joint method of gift wrapping, Howard and Vince always chose their wrapping paper together, trying to find something that pleased both Vince’s artistic awareness and Howard’s sensibilities. This year they had settled on a plain white paper sprinkled with silver snowflakes. Vince had declared the choice “genius” on account of how many decorating options were available, while the clean white and silver appealed to Howard’s love of order and simplicity. 

The post-it note system worked well. Vince would label each of his super-taped packages and Howard would replace the sticky note to the outside so Vince could make them look pretty. Howard had also kindly left post-it notes on each his own parcels so Vince could artfully label them, and already Vince was hard at work, curling ribbon and adhering embellishments. 

Howard’s smile deepened. 

_ This  _ was what he loved best. He didn’t care for  _ things  _ and clutter. Howard loved how Vince took plain things and made them whimsical and lovely. He felt that way about himself, how he’d been just a plain, bullied boy until he met Vince, who had turned him into the jazz-maverick-genre-spanner he was now. He loved to watch Vince, who danced his way through life, and he loved to spend time with Vince, like they were now. 

Howard turned to the kitchen and made some popcorn and cocoa before returning to the living room, which had transformed into a whirling snowglobe of color and fantasy under Vince’s care. Vince didn’t even notice the food til Howard mentioned it. 

As the snow fell outside, and Vince worked in a mad haze of decorating, Howard retreated to their bedroom for a moment. When he returned, Vince was sitting in the center of the decoration mess, looking strangely lost. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Howard. 

“I thought you left,” said Vince simply, some of the light gone out of his eyes. It tugged on Howard’s heart, to hear the simple innocence with which Vince said it, reminded him of when Howard would have to leave Vince when they were children, how sad Vince was whenever he went away. 

“Went to get this,” said Howard, showing Vince the guitar in his hands. 

“Oh, play us something, Howard,” said Vince breathlessly, his eyes once again bright and shining, all trace of the lost boy gone. 

The fire inside Howard warmed at the words, kindling brightly under Vince’s admiration and attention. Howard sat on the sofa and played Christmas music while Vince decorated happily, pausing his work every so often to take a sip of his cocoa with extra marshmallows. 

Vince sneakily watched Howard out of the corner of his eyes while he wrapped, up through his lashes as he sipped from his mug, and sometimes just straight-up stared at him. Howard was so lovely, both to look at and to know. He didn’t know anything about making things pretty, but just by existing Howard elevated everything around him, including Vince. Vince would be well shallow without Howard, just a pretty thing to look at with nothing inside, like a bow on an empty package. On a deeper level, Vince was terrified to think of what he’d be without Howard, images of jail cells or filthy clubs and grabbing hands… he stopped thinking of it, focusing instead on Howard’s hands as they danced across the frets. Howard’s long, talented fingers that were  _ made  _ to play music and write poetry, even if it was a bit shit, the same fingers that had gotten bruised and bloody defending  _ him  _ when they were kids. Vince had an aesthetic appreciation of Howard, his strong profile, the way his lips hitched into a grin as he nailed a particularly difficult measure, the wolfishness to him. But he appreciated what Howard  _ was,  _ too. The lips that also said kind, meaningful things to Vince, the hands that fought for him, the wolfishness that kept him safe. 

Vince hoped to God they’d find some mistletoe this year. He’d waited long enough, and imagined they’d slot together perfectly in  _ that  _ way, too, like they did with crimping or zookeeping. Or present wrapping. 


	5. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's been hiding mistletoe throughout the flat...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big time shout out to my crackwife, [blackmountainbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones), for sexifying this chapter. Seriously, my smutty stuff on its own is practically Victorian. In that the longing is there but it's repressed and staid. If you got hot under the collar in any way at all, it's thanks to them.

“A little to the left,” commanded Naboo. He watched, arms folded petulantly, as Bollo moved the plant a bit sideways.

“This okay?” asked the gorilla.

“Yeah, s’fine,” lisped Naboo, apathy dripping from every syllable. 

Bollo stood and cocked his head, eyeing the greenery hanging from the door jamb. “Bollo not understand.”

“Me either,” replied Naboo with a deep sigh. “If you hang this poisonous parasite in a door during the twelfth month and get stuck under it with another person, you have to kiss them,” he explained, disgust flavoring the words. “Because _ superstition. _ ” 

“Human superstition dumb,” said Bollo. Naboo couldn’t agree more. 

“I just hope it works. I can’t stand any more of the molten sexual tension.”

“Isn’t alternative worse?” the familiar asked. 

“Quite possibly. But maybe it’ll cheer Vince up.”

“Bollo do anything for Vince. Vince precious flower.” 

“Yeah, I know,” said Naboo, sparing one more withering glance at the offending plant hanging over the door. “Let’s go get high,” he suggested, hoping that drugs would take his mind off the deflowering of precious Vince. 

When Vince first noticed the mistletoe hanging in the doorway above the stairs, his heart did a little flip. He had no idea who had left it, but he thanked them silently all the same. He figured it was Father Christmas, as there really wasn’t anyone else who would have done it… certainly not Naboo. Or Howard. But it was exactly what Vince wanted for Christmas this year. He figured he’d have to make Father Christmas a thank-you card. If it worked, that is. 

Howard did not notice the mistletoe in the doorway because he was too busy noticing the scuffs on his brand-new muffin-brown loafers. How had this happened? Life was like a pair of loafers, Howard figured. You come out the box all shiny and new and boom, within one time of leaving the house you’re scuffed and damaged.  _ I should write this down,  _ he thought, eyes to the floor as he skulked in and sought out his notebook. 

After  _ days  _ of trying to get Howard caught under the mistletoe at the top of the stairs, Vince had all but given up. He’d tried pretending to be stuck (“it’s some well sticky chewing gum I stood in, Howard”), injured (“me weak ankle’s given out, Howard,” to which Howard correctly replied, “You don’t have weak ankles, Vince”), getting Howard stuck (“Vince, why are there nails sticking out of the door jamb?”), and simply trying to race up the stairs and get caught under it at the same time as Howard. 

Vince wondered if removing the mistletoe and carrying it with him might work, or was it against the rules? Would a kiss still count if Vince simply held up the mistletoe above he and Howard sometime? Would Howard go for it?

He snuck a glance at Howard, who was carefully policing Stationery Village. Howard’s long musician’s fingers, which were so well-suited to dancing over keys and frets, were equally at home intricately arranging pencils and sellotape. Vince sighed, dreamily. He had it  _ bad,  _ had done for years. But lately it’d gotten worse. Vince blamed the holidays. There were a lot of things you could blame on the holidays _.  _

But Howard’s hair was curling just so, and the light was hitting it and making it look like burnished brass, and he was wearing this stupid creamy cardigan that looked so soft, and his profile was angled in such a way--

Vince’s thoughts were interrupted when Howard asked, “Vince, can you run into the stockroom? I need more paper clips.”

Vince rolled his eyes. Howard  _ could  _ go get his own paper clips, but he was in the middle of adjudicating a misunderstanding between Mrs. Eraserhead and the House of Index Cards. 

“All right,” Vince sighed, reluctantly clomping his way to the back room. As he opened the door, he had to turn sideways to enter around the pile of junk Naboo had left inside the door. “Future inventory” is what he’d called it, but it looked like garbage to Vince. 

Vince tried to maneuver into the crowded room, but found he couldn’t enter it. His shirt, a filmy thing covered with hand-sewn sequins that he’d found at the vintage shop up the road, had gotten caught on a splinter of wood protruding from the door. Vince’s eyes went wide--he absolutely didn’t want to snag the delicate fabric by pulling or yanking it. He stood still for a moment in panic, trying to figure out what to do. It had snagged in that spot just between his shoulder blades, the  _ one  _ spot he couldn’t reach. Vince stood in the dark doorway for long moments, trying to decide on the best course of action. Shrugging out of his own shirt would almost certainly rend the fabric. He could wait here til Naboo came down, but that could be  _ ages.  _ His face flushed with embarrassment at the thought of asking Howard for help. Howard would make him feel like an idiot, which he probably deserved, but didn’t want. Still, there was no other alternative. He was beginning to feel panicked, like an animal stuck in a trap. 

Vince took a deep breath and called, “Howard?”

A few long moments later, he heard Howard’s metered steps approaching. Vince looked down at his feet, embarrassment and anxiety twisting up in his stomach. He felt like a leopard was approaching, listening to Howard’s loping gait.

“Vince? Everything all right?” Vince was pleased to hear a note of concern in Howard’s question. 

“I need help,” he said lamely. Eyes still fixed on the floor, Vince saw Howard’s brown loafers approach.

“Did you get stuck?” Howard’s voice was teasing, but playful. Vince simply nodded. 

“S’around the back, I can’t get out,” said Vince. 

Howard took in the scene before him-- Vince, literally caught here in the doorway in front of him, his hair disheveled as though nervous fingers had been run through it over and over, his sparkly jumper thing stuck in that one spot that’s impossible to reach by yourself, his blue eyes wide with slight panic. 

“Please,” asked Vince. “Only be careful with the fabric, it’ll tear easily,” he begged, his voice plaintive. 

Howard smiled to himself, and put a comforting hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Don’t get so worked up, little man. Howard Moon, man of action, is here.” 

Vince let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and grinned up at Howard, his smile still sheepish, but finally meeting the other man’s eyes. “I feel so stupid, getting stuck like this,” he admitted with a sigh. 

“It’s not exactly fun, is it?” asked Howard. The grin he gave Vince was wolfish, like a fox who’d come across a mouse stuck in a thistle. Heat shot through Vince at the thought. The shame and dull fear of being trapped coursed through him, culminating in arousal as Howard stood in front of him, squeezing himself into the doorway. Howard reached his arms around Vince and fiddled around with the caught fabric. 

Vince could feel Howard’s body pressed against his, and he was shocked at how unfamiliar the sensation was. They spent every hour of every day together but not since childhood had they been pressed together, front to front, like this. Howard was tall and broad, his jumper was soft against Vince’s cheek, the warmth of his body shocking Vince into stillness. He wished Howard would just hurry up, but at the same time, he didn’t want the moment to end. 

Howard fidgeted around Vince’s back, stepping even closer. Vince gasped silently as he felt a warm hardness pressed up against him.  _ Was that…? IT WAS.  _ Vince shut his eyes, willed himself to calm down, but all he did was inhale Howard’s smell and arousal shot through him again. He was sure Howard could hear or feel his heart pounding in his chest. 

Howard’s deft fingers weren’t working fast enough. 

After moments that were both eternal and not long enough, a laugh rumbled from Howard’s chest, his voice tickling the shell of Vince’s ear. “Not fun being purposely trapped in doorways is it?”

Vince inhaled sharply and met Howard’s mischievous little eyes. Howard looked up, and Vince’s eyes followed. 

There, on the doorjamb of the supply closet, was a sprig of mistletoe. 

“Did you--”

Vince’s question was cut off as Howard pressed his lips to Vince’s mouth. The kiss was awkward, sloppy, too much and yet not enough, Howard’s moustache tickling Vince’s upper lip. Howard awkwardly tangled one hand in Vince’s hair, the other still around Vince’s back pressed him closer. Vince’s eyes slid shut--he had no idea what was happening, but it was  _ genius.  _ He never wanted it to stop, but no sooner had that thought crossed his mind than Howard pulled away and took a heaving deep breath. 

Vince physically  _ ached  _ at being split apart after so many long years of desire and confusion between them. He smiled dizzily at Howard. “Breathe, Howard,” he coaxed, rubbing soothing circles onto Howard’s back. 

Howard grinned back, sheepish but eyes dark with desire. 

“Did you do this?” breathed Vince, eyeing the mistletoe. 

“No,” admitted Howard, tracing the back of his hand down Vince’s cheek. “Naboo put them up. I guess he got sick of the pining.”

“ _ I’m  _ sick of the pining,” whined Vince. 

Howard smiled. “Me too.” He leaned in again, kissing with a bit less tongue this time, but with no less passion. Vince took the lead where Howard left off, standing on tiptoe to  _ finally  _ card his fingers through that curly mop. A coil of desire twisted deliciously through Vince when he felt how tall and broad Howard was against his body. 

They both smiled and giggled around the kisses, tongues tangling from the absurdity of it all. Humor gave way to raw desire, and at one point Howard moaned, the husky sound of it nearly causing stars to spark at the edges of Vince’s vision. Vince’s erection pressed hot and needy against the placket of his trousers, aching for friction. He canted his hips against Howard’s, the motion causing their erections to brush against each other. Vince gasped; his breath hitched so suddenly he thought he’d never breathe again, stars dancing on the outside of his peripheral vision. He  _ knew  _ his face must look well stupid, but  _ that-- _ he had never come so close to climax just from kissing. 

Not wanting to ruin the moment or frighten Howard away, Vince pulled back and took a steadying breath. When he opened his eyes, he saw Howard’s were still squeezed shut as though he too were fighting off finishing prematurely. 

“Howard,” breathed Vince, and Howard opened his eyes, cradling Vince’s pointy face like it was the most precious thing in the world, and a blinding grin broke across Vince’s kiss-swollen lips. 

“Happy Christmas, Vince,” whispered Howard, resting his forehead against Vince’s. 

“We’ll do this again, right?” asked Vince, his voice soft with worry. 

“As soon and as often as possible,” replied Howard. 

“Genius,” said Vince, as he reached up and plucked off the mistletoe. “I’m keeping this,” and he slid it into his pocket. 

“Good,” replied Howard.    
  


“Absolutely disgusting,” lisped Naboo. He sat on the floor gazing into his crystal ball, Bollo at his side. 

“Not pretty picture,” agreed Bollo. “Still, plan worked.” 

“I guess,” sighed Naboo, placing a velvet cloth over the crystal ball. “Woteva. Pass me the hookah, will you?”


	6. Christmas Past, Present, and Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look into Vince and Howard's Christmases through time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love this idea and have this massive, multi-chap Dickensian pastiche planned in my head, but time got away from me (also this idea sprung up on the Discord on Sunday, and I'm pretty proud of myself for having a roughly 72 hour turnaround time). But please enjoy this offering. 
> 
> Big time shout out to my darling crackwife, [blackmountainbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones) for also managing to beta this in such a short amount of time. <333

**Christmas Past: Christmas, 1981**

Howard itched to be outside playing; he couldn’t  _ stand  _ Christmas service. He had a brand new sled waiting at home in the garden that desperately needed to be broken in, and the vicar wouldn’t stop with his terrible jokes about the wisemen not having a map. Howard’s thoughts drifted to Vince, and he offered up a small prayer that Vince’s foster family had remembered to get him  _ something,  _ even if it was small, and that they’d had enough foresight to set aside some money for a nice Christmas dinner, even if it wasn’t extravagant. 

Vince’s foster family weren’t very good at that. Howard often packed extra food in his own lunch to try and feed Vince, who was so small and fragile-looking despite his large personality and vulgar vocabulary. “He’s a growing boy,” Mr. Moon would say when Mrs. Moon complained about how much Howard ate. “He’ll run to fat if he’s not careful,” she’d sniff. 

Howard didn’t care. He only ate half the food he snuck out, anyway. Besides, he might be a little pudgy now, but he had hopes he’d be big and tall when he grew up, like his dad. 

The vicar droned on and on, and then there was incense, which always set Howard’s allergies off. He couldn’t  _ wait  _ for service to be done. He’d opened his presents this morning, and he was going to meet Vince later and show him his Christmas haul. Plus, Howard had made sure to carefully divide all the sweets he’d gotten in half so he could give them to Vince. Howard imagined that Vince would carefully hide them away from his foster parents and foster siblings and make them last til well after Valentine’s Day, but Howard knew better. Vince would probably gulch all the sweets in one go. Vince was always saying, “If you don’t eat fast, you don’t eat,” and that made Howard sad. 

A lot about Vince made Howard sad. 

The uneven haircuts Vince gave himself with dull scissors made Howard sad. The way Vince’s shoulders were so bony Howard could feel the joints through his threadbare clothes made Howard sad. Vince’s uniform hanging too large on his small frame made Howard sad, although Vince was always trying to customize it within an inch of the dress code rules. The way Vince’s eyes were always darting about, huge and blue, as though scouting for unseen dangers, made Howard especially sad. Howard wasn’t sure if that was from growing up in the jungle (a tale Howard wholeheartedly believed even if no one else did), or from living in the rougher side of London being a boy who looked like a girl. 

Howard’s parents were alright, he supposed, neither abusive nor effusive. They sometimes acted like they didn’t really want him, like he was something that had just happened to them, but they did take him for regular haircuts and made sure his shoes and uniforms fit. There was always food at his house, and though they did not like to have people over, sometimes Howard would bring Vince around. Vince was uncomfortable with the tidiness and quiet of the Moon household, but then the boys would disappear upstairs and listen to records and write stories and create silly little songs. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ the dismissal hymn sounded and Howard nearly lept from the pew in his eagerness to go see Vince. 

An hour later, Howard was on his shiny new sled waiting at the park where he and Vince had agreed to meet, but Vince was nowhere in sight. This was typical. Vince had no head for time, could barely  _ tell  _ time, and always looked up at the sky whenever Howard nervously asked, “what time is it?” to see where the sun was at. Howard contented himself playing with his new Rubik’s Cube, wrapping his colorful new scarf tighter around his throat. At long last, through the freshly falling snow, Howard caught sight of a small figure running towards the park--Vince. The sight made Howard feel warm and bubbly inside despite the cold and wind.

Vince tromped his way through the snow, pink-cheeked and out of breath by the time he reached Howard. “All right, Howard?” he greeted, a smile breaking across his pointy little face. 

Howard smiled back, but the warm bubble inside him popped when he saw that Vince’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying. “I’m alright, Vince. Are you?”   
  
“Yeah, Happy Christmas!” and he flung himself into Howard in a bone-crushing hug. Howard held tightly onto Vince. Howard felt weird about touching people--his own parents were almost never affectionate with each other or with him, and he didn’t like to touch other people. But Vince wasn’t “other people.” He was Vince. And Howard could not articulate the thought himself, but he loved when Vince touched him or hugged him or played with his curly hair. He held tight onto Vince’s bony little body, wishing the warmth would leech out of him and into Vince. 

Vince had on a raggedy faux-fur leopard coat, probably nicked off his foster mom, and a jumper underneath with jeans he’d decorated himself. Vince always looked cool--whatever “cool” was, Vince had it in spades--but this was not a warm enough outfit for sledding, Howard knew. Before he could insist they find warmer clothes or go indoors, Vince had abandoned Howard in favor of oohing and ahhing over the shiny new sled. 

“Howard, this is  _ genius!  _ I bet it goes so fast! Can we take it down the hill?” 

“Yes, but you need to wear this,” Howard answered, peeling the scarf from around his neck. He wrapped it around Vince’s neck, giggling to himself at how  _ huge  _ it looked on him. Vince stuck a pose and a muffled, “How do I look, Howard?” came from the general direction of the mouth. 

“Perfect,” answered Howard, ruffling the snowflakes in Vince’s dirty blonde hair. “Come on, race you to the top!” 

The boys spent the next hour sledding til their fingers were numb and their faces were red as holly berries. At last, Howard insisted they head back to his, unless Vince had to go for family things. Vince shook his head sadly, and started off in the direction to the Moon house. Howard followed, pulling the sled behind him. 

At Howard’s house, Mrs. Moon fussed and made them hot chocolate and gave them Christmas cookies while the turkey was finishing its time in the oven. The smells made Vince’s mouth water, and he gasped audibly seeing the Christmas tree. He was wowed by the tinsel and multicolored lights, and smiled appreciatively at Howard’s years-old handmade pasta and paper decorations. Vince traced them carefully, running the faded ribbon reverently between his fingers. He found an ornament with a tiny handprint that read “Howard’s first Christmas” on the back, and pressed his own hand over it. “This yours?” he asked Howard in a whisper. 

“Yeah. S’well embarrassing,” Howard answered, shuffling his feet uncomfortably on the brown carpet. 

Vince shook his head, his blue eyes wide and worshipful. “Nah,” he whispered again, like he was in church. “It’s nice. You have things from when you were a baby, and that’s really special.” 

Howard got that twisting sad feeling inside him again, and wanted to touch Vince’s cheek or hug him and tell him it was okay. Instead, he reached under the tree and found the little gift bag he’d hidden there. “Merry Christmas, Vince,” he said quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He wasn’t sure if Vince’s eyes were filling with tears again, or if it was just the way the lights reflected in them. He didn’t have time to ponder further as Vince broke into a sunshine smile and tore into the present, unwrapping a pair of fingerless gloves and the sweets Howard had set aside, declaring the gift to be “genius.” 

Vince left as soon as he was warm, politely declining Christmas dinner with the Moons. The Moons were secretly grateful, but it would have been rude not to offer. Howard knew there’d be no turkey or mincemeat or potatoes or crackers at Vince’s foster home, so he promised Vince a plate of leftovers if he came by around lunchtime tomorrow. Vince nodded eagerly, the sack of sweets from Howard clutched carefully in his hand, his new gloves already on his hands.

“Oh, Howard,” Vince said, reaching into the inner pocket of the leopard coat. He withdrew a lump of brightly colored tissue paper. “Happy Christmas,” he said, shoving the wad at Howard. 

It fell apart as soon as Howard had it in hand, revealing a hand-painted button that read “Coltrain Rocks,” a satsuma, and a weird beaded necklace with what looked like a white block and tassels hanging from it.

Howard felt very awkward. He did not wear jewelry, he never needed to accessorize. There was a simplicity and classicness to his look, yessir. The button  _ would  _ look really cool on his school blazer, though, even if Coltrane was misspelled. 

“That’s our initials together,” said Vince, pointing at the block-shaped pendant of the necklace. Howard looked closer. What he’d assumed had been some abstract tribal-inspired design was, in fact, on closer inspection an artfully stylized H.M. and V.N. The warm bubble inside him nearly burst with joy. He pulled Vince close in a hug. “Thanks, Vince. It’s great,” he said, knowing his words would not convey the greatness of the gift. 

Vince desperately wanted to tell Howard “I love you” just because the words had been sitting heavily on his tongue all day, desperate to come out and be said to  _ someone, _ and if you couldn’t tell someone that on Christmas, when could you? Furthermore, who but Howard could Vince say it to? But he didn’t. He swallowed the words and slipped on the happy mask and smiled, turning into the cold dark to head back to a home with too many children, not enough money, nowhere near enough attention, and angry siblings all acting out and vying for what little attention there was. “See ya, Howard!” he called over his shoulder. 

Howard watched him go, the happy bubble inside him deflating. At least there’d be tomorrow to look forward to. He slipped the necklace on under his jumper, wearing it close to his skin, and joined his parents for Christmas dinner. 

Neither of them realized that Vince had walked home still wearing Howard’s new scarf. The bright colors seemed to suit Vince better, anyways. Years later, neither would remember that for a few brief hours, it had originally been Howard’s. 

* * *

  
**Christmas Present: Christmas, 2007**

The disastrous show at the Velvet Onion had been one week prior, and Vince was still reeling in misery at how terribly it had gone. Not only had he missed the best and possibly only chance he’d ever have to front a real band, but Howard was gone. 

The last seven days had past in a blur of melancholy, a thing Vince hadn’t experienced since his childhood and teenage years being shifted around from one foster home to another--before the Zoo Times. Of course, even then he’d had a constant. 

He’d had Howard. 

And now Howard was off with  _ Jurgen. _ Vince spat the name venomously even inside his own head. Vince had tried drowning his sorrows in thumping club music and flirtinis, but after such an embarrassingly  _ bad  _ show, the Camden elite didn’t want him. He’d been chucked aside like last hour’s  _ Cheekbone.  _ And for the first time since before meeting Howard, Vince was completely alone.

He moped around the flat, ignoring his clothes and his haircare, throwing on whatever was lying around. He drank a bit too much most days, starting earlier than was proper, but what was the point? Nobody was around to scold him except Naboo, and  _ he _ had no room to talk. Naboo didn’t just wake and bake, Vince was pretty sure he invented the “soap and dope (getting high in the bath),” and the “kip and trip (the first being ever recorded to actively use drugs while sleeping).” 

Vince hadn’t even realized it was Christmas Eve until he went down to the shop one afternoon and found it dark, the till still closed and the windows shuttered. He wondered if it was a holiday, and his questions were answered when Naboo and Bollo came in, arms full of parcels. “S’Christmas Eve, we’re closed til after New Year,” the Shaman lisped. 

“Oh, right,” replied Vince, his voice flat. 

“Don’t you have some parties to go to or summat?” asked Naboo. 

Vince shook his head. Camden’s elite didn’t want him after the disastrous show. They’d made that  _ very  _ clear. His only friend in the world was Leroy, who was off skiing in Switzerland. Leroy, and… and Howard. 

“Nah, think I’ll go to bed early,” said Vince as he trudged up the stairs. 

“C’mon, Bollo, we got to wrap these presents. Look at the state of Vince, he needs cheering up.” 

“When Howard come back, Bollo knee him in ballsack,” Bollo grunted. 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that and plead ignorance,” replied Naboo. They already knew Howard would return, had foreseen it in Naboo’s tea leaves--they just didn’t know when. 

Vince grabbed the half empty bottle of vodka off the kitchen counter and took it with him to bed, along with a tattered multicolored scarf, drinking til the memories of all the Christmases with Howard--snowball fights, burned turkeys, delicious meals, Christmas crackers, disastrous presents, handmade decorations, rare hugs and kind words--all blurred together. He didn’t give a shit if he woke up at two tomorrow afternoon--didn’t give a shit if tomorrow happened at all, since Howard wasn’t there to share it with. 

Miles away, Howard looked out over the city of Denmark, knowing the children had long since gone to bed after leaving out milk and cookies for the nisser and Julemanden. He fought back tears--his entire trip out here had been a disaster, the epic role promised to him nothing more than an embarrassing commercial. He wondered what Vince was doing. Howard  _ always  _ wondered what Vince was doing, but he’d been so angry when he left that he’d left no phone number or address and his pride prohibited him from reaching out (pride, and a healthy fear of rejection). He had willingly exiled himself from Vince, and tonight, his heart was breaking over it. 

Bone-weary and heartsick, Howard crawled into his cold bed, no joy or excitement at the prospect of facing Christmas tomorrow. He reached beneath his shirt and clutched the square pendant on the beaded necklace that he never took off, sorrow sweeping him into sleep. 

* * *

**Future: Christmas 2019**

Howard sat on the squashy sofa watching the snow fall in the moonlight through the window, the only light in the living room coming from the fire crackling in the hearth and the soft, electric glow of lights off the tree. He eyed the tree appreciatively--Vince had outdone himself this year. There were the obligatory “family Christmas ornaments”--the ones Howard had made as a child that Vince refused to get rid of, including the handprint of baby Howard that Vince said was his favorite. 

Then there were the ones they’d made together. Every year he and Vince would make a list of dead celebrities they admired and make an ornament for them to hang on the tree. It was getting a bit crowded now, but Howard found he didn’t mind. Howard’s favorite was the one they’d made nearly ten years ago, featuring the handprints of two grown men, side by side, “Our First Christmas” etched underneath. 

Howard fiddled with the gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand. Their first Christmas had, of course, been decades ago. But their first  _ married _ Christmas _ …  _

Vince came into the room, carefully carrying two mugs of eggnog piled high with whipped cream. Without a word, he sat down next to Howard, handed him a mug, and curled himself into Howard’s side, the way one slips into a pair of shoes that have molded perfectly to one’s feet. Comfortably, easily, seamlessly. 

It hadn’t always been comfortable, easy, or seamless. The years leading up to Howard’s Christmas away in Denmark had been fraught with tension. The first couple of years back had been tentative, uneasy. Finally, the Shaman had set them right. Howard would never admit it out loud, but he’d be forever grateful to that group of magical miscreants for setting he and Vince on the right path. 

Vince rested his head on Howard’s shoulder, his feathery hair tickling Howard’s neck. He smiled as he sipped his eggnog. Vince remained ageless as ever, his face lineless, his hair dyed black. He wasn’t as fey and androgynous as he’d once been--age made him more masculine, his jaw more square and his features less pointy, but he was still beautiful. Would  _ always  _ be beautiful to Howard. 

Howard wasn’t sure how he’d managed it, snagging and keeping Vince Noir all these years. Howard’s face was lined, every worry he’d ever had (and there had been many) etched into his skin like rings on the inside of tree trunks. He thought he looked worn and craggy, but Vince always told he was aging like a fine wine. His hair had long since gone gray at the temples, was salt and pepper on top. The moustache he still kept with care had gone gray, too. He had, as his mother had worried ages ago, gone a bit soft through the middle, but with his height and broad shoulders he carried it well. Vince always said he was “distinguished” and “well handsome,” and the vivacity of their private life was testament to the fact that Vince’s affection had only grown as the years passed. 

Howard pressed a kiss to the top of Vince’s head, smelling in the familiar, comforting strawberry shampoo. He used almost no hairspray these days, for which Howard was thankful. It meant he could run his fingers through the silky locks and not get stuck. Vince sighed deeply, happily, and placed his mug on the table before toeing off his Chelsea boots and curling around Howard like nothing more than an overgrown kitten. 

The day had been long, starting early with presents, and ending with a feast of Christmas roast, garlicky potatoes, fresh bread and butter, Yorkshire puddings, scones and clotted cream, good wine, and biscuits Vince had baked and decorated himself. The boys had hosted the Shaman and Leroy and his three kids at the Noir-Moon house, in the Yorkshire countryside, and had only just managed to get everyone out of the house and things set back in order. 

Howard felt his eyes grow heavy, Vince’s weight a comfort, as always, against him. The warm bubble of happiness he’d felt as a child whenever he held Vince close had never really gone away. Now it was a constant, a perpetual presence of soothing comfort. He loved Vince, and Vince loved him, now and always. 

“Love you, ‘oward,” mumbled Vince, his breaths already deepening. Howard smiled and kissed his head again. 

“Love you, too, Vince. Merry Christmas.” 

On a peg by the door, a worn, tattered scarf hung in place of pride next to a funky, handmade, beaded necklace. The items were worn often, but not as religiously as they’d once been. The thing they reminded their owners of was right there with them, inside them, forever, never to be parted again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Howard was telling the truth in "Party," then Howard Moon was born in 1975. Julian Barratt was born in 1968, so I averaged the two and got 1972, and added 9 years to get 1981. I figured the boys were about 8-10 in the first part, and Vince's age is unknown. He just says he's as old as Howard (at least til that's not cool anymore). 
> 
> Also, [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/2d4c92b3059cd53a953670bdbbadd8b8/tumblr_inline_psuphpvyTo1wcbf3f_540.gif) is Howard's necklace and [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbd5gieweb1qcurgyo1_640.jpg) is the scarf. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Merry everything and happy always!


	7. Hot Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard's in pursuit of preparing the perfect cup of hot chocolate, and gets Vince to be his taste tester. Fluff abounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a minute, but December and the holiday season always makes me wistful, and what better way to escape than the Boosh?
> 
> Hope you enjoy this tooth-rotting sweetness. We're almost through this abysmal year, and I couldn't be more grateful for the beautiful Booshlrs who've helped me through. Lots of love to all of you! xoxo

Vince loves this time of year. He loves wandering down Carnaby Street, taking in the dizzying kaleidoscope of Christmas lights, the elaborate store displays, and the shiny new product being pushed in time for holiday gift-giving. He  _ loves  _ gift giving (he loves gift receiving even more). 

Vince enjoys being out, but as Christmas draws closer and the streets get tighter with bodies and the shops grow more cramped, Vince’s roots as a wild thing insist he roost closer to home. 

What Vince loves best of all about Christmas are the small moments at home with his family. 

Naboo and Bollo are sprawled lazily on the couch, having consumed some edibles (edible  _ what  _ they wouldn’t say), and Howard’s puttering in the kitchen, the soft  _ clink  _ of spoons against glass a comforting punctuation to the Phil Spector Christmas album scratching away on the record player. 

Vince is sitting cross-legged in front of the tree--it’s small, barely 4 feet, but Naboo picked it out and thought it was perfect, so that’s what Vince and Howard get for not picking their own Christmas tree. Still, Vince decorated it lovingly, stringing up rainbow lights and sparkly tinsel and handmade ornaments with care. He’s always loved Christmas trees--he remembers the first time he saw one in his foster home after leaving the jungle. The awe of a tree inside the house--that they got to  _ decorate  _ and  _ beautify _ \--still thrills him now as an adult. As a child he’d sit in front of the tree, his eyes aglow from the lights, just soaking in the peace and tranquility and beauty of it all. He enjoys it as an adult, too. 

“Vince,” Howard calls from the kitchen. “Come here, I need you to taste this.” 

Vince springs up. If there’s one thing he likes better than Christmas trees, it’s when Howard says  _ I need you _ . 

Howard’s in the kitchen, a pot of milk on the stove, brown cocoa powder dusting the countertops, and a tool that Naboo had teased Howard for owning in his hands. Vince laughed when Naboo said Howard owned an intergalactic sex toy, but Howard had turned red and stammered that it was  _ a milk frother for Brian’s sake,  _ and he’d been so flustered that Vince felt bad for giggling. The milk frother’s in his hand now, and in the other is Vince’s favorite mug. 

It’s a silly mug, mustard yellow with Peter Max-esque squiggles and flowers on it--definitely a relic from the 70s, much as Vince fancies himself to be. 

“What’s this, Howard?” Vince asks, taking the proffered mug. It’s warm in his hands, the ceramic cozy and comforting. 

“I have perfected hot chocolate,” replies Howard proudly. “This is the finest hot chocolate this side of Mexico and you’re going to taste it.” 

“If it’s so great, why d’you need a taste tester?” Vince asks.

“All the great masters get feedback on their work,” replies Howard.

“The hot chocolate masters?”

“Yes, all of them. All the way back to Lord Efluvius of Rome.”

“Really,” Vince says with an eye-roll. Still, the kitchen smells delicious--the bitter tang of chocolate hangs mouth-wateringly in the air next to the sweet, cloudlike scents of sugar and warm milk. 

Vince raises the mug to his lips. Steam billows up to his face as he breathes on the brown liquid. It really does smell and look amazing, but he’s going to take the piss out of Howard a bit, because that’s what he does.

Careful not to burn his tongue, Vince takes a sip. The milk is steamed to perfection, and ridiculous as the milk frother looks, it works wonders--the liquid is warm, frothy, and exquisite. The balance of chocolate is just right, not too much, not too little. Vince swallows and notes, with pleasure, the aftertaste of cinnamon dancing on his tongue. 

Howard has outdone himself. 

So what Vince says is, “Mmm...needs whipped cream, Howard.” 

Howard’s face falls. He’s been watching Vince in tense anticipation, and he deflates like a poked balloon at Vince’s proclamation. 

“You tit,” he spits, clearly hurt that his hard work and careful experimentation had not garnered the praise he so obviously deserves. 

“No, I mean,” says Vince, backpedaling rapidly. “It needs the cream to balance the chocolate. A little cool to offset the heat.” 

Howard considers this. Vince knows that his own idea of a balanced meal is tart bootlaces to offset out the sweet ones, yet here he is, catching Howard off-guard speaking about a balanced palate. 

Vince knows Howard well enough to know that Howard knows he’s right. He can see Howard’s mind wheels turning, and reaching the conclusion that whipped cream  _ would  _ be nice. 

Still, Howard makes a show of huffing around the kitchen gathering a bowl and whisk, and slamming the fridge open as he grabs the heavy cream. 

Vince practically vibrates with excitement. He loves to watch Howard cook--it’s like magic, the way Howard takes well boring ingredients and turns them into something edible and delicious. 

He watches eagerly as Howard fills the bowl with the heavy cream and adds some sugar. He even adds a few drops of vanilla extract while looking directly at Vince, as if to say, “I’m doing this for you.” It warms Vince even more than the hot chocolate had. 

The best part of all? Watching Howard roll up his sleeves and take a whisk to the bowl. Howard whisks vigorously, his strong forearms muscled and sure as he whips the heavy cream into fluff.

Watching makes Vince lightheaded. If he’d been a woman in one of those boring BBC literature movies, he’d be fanning himself and swooning at the sight of Howard whipping up stiff peaks of cream.

Within minutes, Howard’s done (much too soon for Vince’s liking) and he stops. He grabs a spoon and dumps a sizable dollop of whipped cream into Vince’s mug. 

“There,” he proclaims, still feigning that he’s cross. He folds his arms, and waits for Vince to take a sip. 

Vince is slightly breathless from the excitement of it all--getting a rise out of Howard gives Vince a little  _ rise  _ of his own--but he shoots Howard a wicked grin and takes a sip. 

The whipped cream really does make all the difference in the world. Before it had been a great cup of hot chocolate; now it has indeed become  _ the best  _ cup of hot chocolate. 

Vince hums appreciatively, and meets Howard’s eyes. “That,” he says, quiet and serious, “is perfect.” 

Howard takes a step towards him. Vince’s eyes widen, his mind supplying a delicious image of Howard whipping  _ his  _ stiff peak, but Howard merely gives him a soft grin and runs a thumb over the pointy end of Vince’s nose. 

Howard raises his thumb to show Vince how it’s covered in whipped cream, before sucking it into his mouth. 

Vince’s lips part. He can practically feel his pupils blow wide as he watches the erotic sight of Howard sucking his thumb. 

Howard never breaks eye contact, and uses Vince’s shock to his advantage. He pries the mug from Vince’s fingers, and takes a sip. 

When he brings the cup down, a line of whipped cream clings to his moustache. Vince eyes it hungrily. 

“That is quite good,” Howard admits with a half-smile. 

Vince giggles. “You’ve got something--” he says, pointing at Howard’s lip. But before Howard can fix his moustache, Vince closes the distance between them and sucks the sweet cream right off Howard’s lips. 

Howard sighs into the kiss, setting the mug on the counter and leaning against it as Vince crowds up into his personal space. Vince runs his hands up and down Howard’s exposed forearms, over those strong, smooth arms, and brushes his half-hard erection against Howard’s front. 

Howard tangles his hands in Vince’s hair and deepens the kiss, as Vince relishes the sweet chocolatey flavor of Howard’s lips, drinking down his flavor with far more gusto than he had the hot chocolate. 

A little keening sound drags from Vince’s throat, a sound that makes Naboo shout at them from the living room. “Oi, don’t do that where we all eat! Christy.” 

Vince pulls back, his cheeks pink and chest heaving. Howard grins down at him. “Later, little man,” he whispers, and pecks Vince’s cheek. 

Vince nods, adjusting himself and reaching around Howard for the mug of hot chocolate. “Cheers, Howard,” he says, taking another sip. He’ll help Howard tidy the kitchen, and then they’ll make their excuses to Bollo and Naboo and find good ways to keep each other warm.

It’s cold and crowded outside, but inside, it’s warm, cozy, and sweet, sweet as hot chocolate and homemade whipped cream.

Yes, this is  _ definitely  _ Vince’s favorite time of year. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to [blackmountainbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones)  
> for beta-ing.
> 
> [This](https://mercari-images.global.ssl.fastly.net/photos/m57915468688_1.jpg?1560792498) is how I pictured Vince's mug. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
